


Passion's Fondest Song

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:36:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a bit of a convo between AtlinMerrick and myself regarding Mrs. Hudson (as portrayed in her wonderful stories, particularly here, The First Time... Mrs Hudson Caught Them At It  http://atlinmerrick.livejournal.com/75556.html)</p>
<p>Mrs. Hudson, secret romance novelist and genre queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passion's Fondest Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The First Time... Mrs Hudson Caught Them At It](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/22884) by AtlinMerrick. 



  
  


Elizabeth Ariadne Westminster Hudson was certain of two things in life. The first was that the electric chair had been far too good for her husband. The second was that, should Sherlock ever get on that final, last, very fragile, nerve, she could walk away from Baker Street and live comfortably in the Bahamas for the remainder of her days. She and her pool boy, Guillermo, whom she would hire based on his foot rubbing abilities.

  
  


Upstairs, she could hear the thumps and thuds and occasional raised voices of her boys in the throes of, finally, paraprofessional endeavours for London's finest and _not_ , thank you very much, yet another round of enthusastic sex. If she were to be honest with herself (and she always tried to be, really, because what was the point of lying to one's self when one always knew the truth and had to live with that knowledge daily?), she was a bit disappointed that they had stopped going at it like rabbits. Oh, they still had a healthy and above-average sex life, especially for men of their ages and dispositions, but it wasn't like just a few short weeks ago. Since the day that Sherlock and John had pulled their respective heads out of their respective arses, Dear Lizzie had walked in on them in various positions and activities, all over the flat. _Just when you thought it was safe to do a bit of tidying up..._ She hummed the theme to _Jaws_ and set about her afternoon's project, listening to the two of them argue above her as she scribbled inside the stack of books before her.

  
  


“ _Passion's Fondest Song_? Really, Mrs. Hudson!”

“I'm not a cloistered nun, John Watson!” She plucked the book from his hands and smoothed the lurid paperback cover down with a practiced flick of her wrist. “I understand,” she added slyly, “the love scenes in this one are quite racy!”

John tilted his head to read the back cover. “Simon and Joshua? This is about two blokes?”

“So it would seem,” she tittered, reveling, for a moment, in the dotty old lady act that usually resulted in her two boys overlooking or downright ignoring whatever it was she was doing that made them suspicious or uneasy. “Quite the in thing, now.” Waistcoat rippers, the gay bodice ripper, she had been assured, were selling like hotcakes. Well, Liz had decided long ago that she didn't care what floated which boat and where it docked so long as everyone involved was agreeable and prepared. And romances (She chuckled at that term... They were more erotica than romance, really, but people did get so worked up when asking there whereabouts of the erotica. Calling them romances was just so much more socially acceptable.) were really for everyone, no matter who they took to bed. Or kitchen. Or living room. Or laundry room. Or... She shook herself out of her reverie and smiled at John. “Banana cake, dear?”

John, who had been in the midst of a growing diatribe on unrealistic expectations foisted upon men by the romance industry, paused, snapped his jaw shut and nodded. “That'd be lovely, thanks.”

Lizzie was no fool. Dotty old lady act plus an offer of food distracted them every time.

  
  


It wasn't until three days later that she realized one of her books was missing. She had arranged for the nice young man from the courier's office to come pick up the whole kit and kaboodle and deliver them to the publisher's office for her, but as he arrived, she noticed an empty spot where one of the copies of _Passion's Fondest Song_ should be. “Oh, bloody, buggering, fucking Hell!” She whispered her epithets but she still looked about just to make sure her cover had not been blown. Aradine Westminster's latest offering in her _Men of North London_ series of historical romances had not been released officially as of yet, and her publisher would murder her where she stood if a copy (signed, at that!) got out before the big launch. She didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know where the missing copy had gone, either. Tugging her cardigan into place, she ordered the courier's lad to stay right where he was and not touch a single thing because she would know and he didn't want that, now, did he? Lizzie marched up the seventeen steps to B and, without even slowing down, threw open the door and stomped on dainty kitten heels to where John Watson sat, eyes round as saucers, reading the last few pages of her novel. “Well?” she demanded after he had finished.

“I...” He closed the book, set it carefully down on the coffee table as if expecting it to explode (Much like Simon had in chapter twelve. And again in twenty three, forty six, and right there at the very end, all thanks to Joshua's 'careful, steady hands' and 'thin but sensual lips'.) “Um.”

“Sherlock hasn't deduced this yet. And if I have anything to say about it, he won't. Breathe one word, Doctor, and I will put laxatives in the baking. But not right away. But it will happen. And they will be _strong_.”

John nodded slowly. He handed the book to Dear Lizzie and rubbed his palms on his jeans, not quite meeting her gaze. “Um, those two blokes... Some of what they got up to...”

She smiled and patted John on the shoulder soothingly. “I'm an old lady, Doctor Watson, and have seen many, many things in my life... It's just a coincidence.”

John nodded. “I...um. I'll keep that in mind.”

Lizzie felt a pang of remorse for being so sharp with him and, deciding the courier could wait a minute more, bent down to whisper in her tenant's ear. “The next one comes out 'round Christmas, dear. There's an entire chapter devoted to bondage. I'll send you an advanced copy and you can make it a nice present for Sherlock.” She winked at him and almost giggled as the doctor's face turned red. “Now. I've made far too much roast and will bring the two of you some later, for tea. But just this once, mind. I'm not your housekeeper, dear.” She tucked the book under her arm and fairly skipped back to her own flat. There, she thought, shoving the copy back into the box and waving it off with the courier, all was right with the world. Her world, anyway. She had best, she decided, not include anything else from her accidental spying on the boys for a few books, at least until John stopped jumping like a scared rabbit whenever she was near. That was fine—she had plenty of memories saved up from her summer at the swinger's club in Barbados.


End file.
